


Turn to Dust

by ofmightyopposites



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Dreams, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 02:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofmightyopposites/pseuds/ofmightyopposites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some nights, John Watson dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn to Dust

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  _All your theories  
>  turn to dust._   
> 

Some nights, John Watson dreams he is walking down the street. Limping, to be fair. The cane does little to help him now that the limp has returned, but he uses it anyway and has not--will not utter a word of complaint. John Watson, M.D. and soldier. He refuses to think of the man and his brother who insisted, and were proved infuriatingly correct, the limp was psychosomatic. It does not feel this way now. It must be real. If John Watson admits to himself that his limp is psychosomatic, he will hear it in in his voice. That deep baritone chiding him, calling him an idiot in the best possible way. John is convinced this limp must be real. Perhaps he sustained an injury when the solitary cyclist knocked him to the ground and broke his concentration and his promise to keep his eyes on Sher—no. Must not dwell on that.  
  
In his dreams, he walks along the sunlit sidewalk, not thinking--never thinking--of these things, and feels his mobile go off in his pocket.  
  
John shifts his weight to lean on the god-forsaken cane (a cane for a real, never psychosomatic limp, for twisted, traitorous muscles) and fishes the damnable and really quite insistent mobile out of his pocket.  
  
Look up.  
SH  
  
He blinks once, twice, thrice, before glancing up. The sight that greets him nearly knocks him to the ground. John's hand grips the cane tighter.  
  
His best friend--the best and wisest man he ever knew--is standing on the roof, looking down at him. In fact, Sherlock Holmes is standing atop all the buildings on the street. There are dozens of Sherlocks, standing and watching. Too many to count. John is never quite certain how, but he can always see the sharp silhouette of Sherlock's coat, the prominent lines that are his cheekbones, the sunlight filtering through his dark curls.  
  
But something feels off. False. Wrong. Broken. John's phone buzzes, demanding attention. He does not want to take his eyes off Sherlock Holmes. Not this time, if he can help it.  
  
You know my methods. Apply them.  
SH  
  
And then he realizes (he should have realized sooner): _this makes no sense_. Sherlock once told him, reminded him, that he was a consulting detective--the only one in the world. The only one. Just the one. Could John even imagine there being someone else like Sherlock? Certainly, there is Mycroft, but he is not comparable to Sherlock.  
  
Some of the Sherlocks flicker in the sunlight like the illusions they must be. John only has one Sherlock. Had. John only had one Sherlock.  
  
John was always fascinated by lights, even when in Afghanistan, and lights there often meant the beginning of a new wave of injured soldiers to treat; lights were not necessarily...good. On the rooftops, several Sherlocks reflect and refract light, casting gorgeous streams of color that, despite their beauty, burn John. Burn his heart.  
John does not feel the solitary tear roll down the weather-worn skin of his face.  
  
Focus, John.  
SH  
  
Yes. Focus. Observe. Sherlock told John that he often saw, but did not observe. One of the images is real. Solid. Still living. Still living. But which one? They all glance at him sharply. He can feel it.  
  
Find me.  
SH  
  
John Watson, soldier and doctor, blogger and friend, watches. There has to be a--there must be--there it is. A sign. Of course. The Sherlock Holmeses step forward to the ledge and move to toss their mobiles aside. John knows this part. Knows it far too well, like the images of war-torn Afghanistan before he returned, invalided, to London.  
  
The cane clatters to the street and John breaks into a run. It is the only sound he hears.  
  
There is always a body after he runs. A solid body losing blood and warmth on the sidewalk. John reaches out to search for a pulse he knows will not be there, despite desperately wishing otherwise. Sherlock Holmes’ cupid’s bow quirks up at the corner, a bare flicker of movement John will only register as not being a trick of the light because of what happens next.  
  
His mobile buzzes and the body disappears in a flurry of dark curls, bloodstained skin, and silvery eyes that turn to dust before John can catch hold of a hand, an arm…anything.  
  
Not bad, for now.  
SH  
  
Some nights, John Watson dreams only of simple things like deerstalker caps. Tea. Violins.  
  
Most nights, John Watson wishes he did not dream.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks go to Christina (reichenfall), my lovely beta without whom I would still be staring at a word processing screen, wondering what the hell I was supposed to do. That is not an exaggeration.
> 
> The title comes from Muse's song "City of Delusion."


End file.
